Molly
by low-daisy
Summary: For the first time in a very long time, Molly Hooper lived. Until he began living…again. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Just a few things to note about this story before we begin. Molly had no part in Sherlock's death and the story follows no particular set of events - it is just a storyline that I have created with no real correlation to the episodes. Enjoy!

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Chapter 1

It was fascinating to watch, she thought. Sort of morbid but nevertheless, completely fascinating.

She watched, entranced, as the small bug struggled in the large spider web in the corner of the ceiling. The eight-legged creature began slowly inching its way closer, a telltale sign that the poor thing was well and truly trapped and soon to be a goner.

So morbid.

She supposed that the word morbid described her life pretty well, anyway. Her job was considered to be quite morbid by people, what with the whole examining dead people day in and day out. Her love life – or lack thereof - could be considered morbid as well. God, she couldn't even remember the last time she had either gone on a date or even kissed a man. But she couldn't let her mind wander down that route – no, because then she would think of _him._ And she had really been trying not to think about that lately.

The spider finally reached its prisoner and the bug wiggled frantically one last time before it suddenly went still.

She had honestly never related to anything more.

"Molly, have you even been listening?"

She tore her eyes from the ceiling of the pub and looked at her friend.

"Maybe?" She answered meekly.

Meena rolled her eyes, taking a sip from her glass of wine.

"I swear to God, you better not have been thinking about Sher-"

"Please!" yelped Molly. "Don't say his…I wasn't…just shush, please."

Meena was her oldest and dearest friend, but Molly couldn't even let her say _his_ name. The pain was just still too raw, too real. But Meena was almost finished her second glass of wine within the hour, so Meena obviously did not care anymore.

"Bloody hell, Molls," she sighed. "It's been six months – six months! And you're still letting that-"

"Please, Meena."

"- dickhead control your life!"

Molly looked around in slight mortification at the patrons of the pub, who had all simultaneously turned to look at their table.

"I really don't want to talk about this right now-" Molly hissed.

"But that's the thing!" Meena interrupted, this time more quietly. "Molly, you _never_ want to talk about it. You say you are fine and moving on but I _know_ this is still tearing you apart inside. You're always too busy to do anything besides work these days. It took me two weeks to even convince you to meet me here tonight. You're not thinking about other men, or dating or even really thinking about anything at all!"

"That isn't true," Molly insisted. "I really am _fine_."

"Bullshit," Meena said. "You saw the body being rolled into St Bart's mortuary. You saw the news reports. You went to the funeral, for Christ's sakes. But you still haven't accepted it. Sherlock Holmes-"

Oh god, the stabbing in her chest at the sound of his name.

"- is dead, Molly."

Her breath left her in one sweeping sensation, her heart dropping to her stomach at the same time tears sprang to her eyes. No one had said that to her in a very, very long time.

Her friends' eyes softened considerably. "I'm saying this because I'm worried about you. You cannot keep letting this man control your life, even from beyond the grave. You've turned into a shell of your former self."

Molly stared down at the table, unable to look her friend in the eyes. What she was saying was true – all of it was so true. She loved Sherlock with all of her heart, doing anything he wanted just to make him happy. But it was never enough for him. She didn't think he even counted her as a friend, just a conveniently placed pathologist who was so in love with him that she would steal body parts and drop everything in her life if he demanded her to do so.

He was handsome and intelligent and had rare moments of such beautiful humanity; and she was still desperately in love with him. But he had manipulated her, ignored her and was, at times, so unbelievably cruel to a woman who had never done anything but given him her heart.

He was all of these things, but most importantly, he was dead.

For the first time in six months, Molly really allowed herself to think this. Sherlock. Was. Dead.

There was such power in acceptance. Denial was so much easier, and much less painful to bear. It did not require too much strength to push a problem to the back of your mind, to deny its existence and pretend like everything was perfectly fine; 'That's a problem to deal with later, when I am ready', she would tell herself.

But finally acknowledging, finally accepting that he was dead lifted an unbelievably heavy weight from her chest, allowing her to be free from a dread that she thought she would have to live with forever.

Finally free.

She looked at Meena, a newfound strength in her eyes and reservedness in the line of her mouth.

"I'm going to try, Meena." She drained the rest of her wine in one gulp. "I am going to try so hard to move on from Sherlock bloody Holmes."

She began meeting with her friend at least once a week for either drinks or dinner, it didn't matter, just as long as it forced her to get out of her flat. She took time off work and visited her family; helping her Mum with gardening and her sister to look after her nephew. She cut her formerly mousy hair into a sophisticated lob (long bob, for anyone that questioned her), taking the effort to (usually) curl it every day. She treated herself to a new wardrobe and became a member of the small local book club that she had always been too scared to join, but the ladies were lovely and the gossip that accompanied each meeting made her week. She took walks in the park on the rare sunny London day, even standing outside in the pouring rain once, laughing, just to remember how it felt to lose complete control.

It was after a class of Bikram yoga - when she was all sweaty and disgusting, just her luck - enjoying a coffee in a quaint café she didn't know even existed near her flat, that she met him. It was there she said yes to the barista who asked her out, and she even genuinely smiled and laughed on their first date, his kind nature and sense of humour endearing him to her.

For the first time in a very long time, Molly Hooper _lived._

Until _he_ began living…

…again.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for the favorites and follows!

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Chapter 2

The room was still spinning behind her closed eyes. The struggle to breathe became more and more intense with each passing second. The air felt heavier, consumed with his presence, as if he had stepped into the room and immediately commanded it to become his. She willed herself not to turn around – she wasn't positive she could even if she tried. For if she turned around, it all became very real.

Too real for Molly to handle.

He was dead. He was meant to be dead – she'd gone to his funeral, grieved with John, grieved for herself. She had laid flowers on his gravestone and helped Mrs Hudson tearfully clean the apartment; careful to not throw a single thing away that would keep him in their memories. His death had been national, international, news. It didn't make sense.

So why did Molly not find herself more surprised? That's because it wasn't surprising. Of anyone in the world to fake their own public death, of course it would be Sherlock Holmes. Of course he would be the only one capable of putting his closest friends through hell, probably not sparing a thought at all for their feelings. He could've told them – they would've played along loyally with his deception, not even needing to know the reason for the elaborate scheme. Her and John and Mrs Hudson would have followed him in a heartbeat, no matter the consequences. Two years ago, he could have sought their help. But that is wherein lied the problem with Molly. She was not the same woman from two years ago.

How dare he – how dare he deceive and lie to some of the only people on the planet who truly cared for him? How dare he waltz back into her life, into her lab on this Monday morning as if he'd never left? How dare he wipe all thoughts of Tom from her mind and make her heart skip that familiar beat? How could he have the audacity to do such a thing?

Her eyes flung as she spun around to look him in the eye, him standing there all innocently in the doorway. Her eyes drank him in. He looked tired and unsure, but still the exact same Sherlock from two years ago. His expression was blank to the casual observer, but even after all this time Molly knew him well enough to be able to tell that he was unsure about the social situation at hand. His lips wavered, his eyes darting to the sides.

She saved him the trouble of finding the words to say by walking to him with confidence in her strides, her mouth set in a grim line of determination. The anger, hurt and confusion welled in inside her and propelled the force of her hand as it made contact his cheek. She took an alarming amount of satisfaction in the way his head snapped to the side, eyes wide with shock, his hand rising to rub his now-red face.

"Well hello to you too, Molly Hooper."

It was the voice that did it. The rich timbre of his voice broke something inside of her that she had worked hard to conceal for a long, long time, and with a loud sob she fell into him.

Awkward and stiff arms wrapped around her, unsure of what to do with the crying woman in their clutches. Thankfully for him, a sniffling Molly pulled back after only a few seconds.

"Sorry about that," she sniffled.

"A slap and then a tear-filled hug? How uncharacteristically unpredictable of you, Molly." He smirked.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," she said sincerely, ignoring his comment. "I don't know the circumstances and right now I don't really care, you're just…alive, and that's all I need to know for now. I don't think my mind would be able to process much else at the moment."

He nodded uncomfortably, clearly grateful to be spared the explanation of his disappearance.

"Have you been to see…" she trailed off, not wanting to say his name, and knowing that Sherlock would know exactly who she was talking about.

He did.

"Ah, been to see…? No, no – not quite yet. You are, um, the first person I have found myself…reuniting with."

This came as a surprise to Molly, but at the same time she knew that he would put off seeing his best friend – former best friend? – to avoid the inevitable backlash and fight that would ensue.

But then again, she didn't matter, did she? She had never _truly_ mattered to Sherlock, so why did he come to see her first?

She smiled at him. "Well I sincerely thank you for this great honour. Sit down, would you like a cuppa while you're here?"

This was absurd. The man she was in love with – formerly in love with, she forcefully told herself – and who she thought was dead had just strolled back into her life and she was here calmly offering a cup of coffee like nothing had happened. Count in the fact that he had come to see her before anyone else and she was about to lose it.

She didn't bother to wait for his answer, needing to keep herself busy. He took a seat at the black stool slowly, studying her intensely as if he was trying to solve a difficult equation.

"Black, two sugars. Just how you like it," she said, handing him the mug. He didn't take a sip.

"Something," he began. "Is unequivocally different about you, Molly Hooper."

"What…" she said self-consciously, smoothing her hair. "I-it's the hair. Obviously, Sherlock."

"No," he murmured thoughtfully. "It's deeper than that. Although physically…"

She squirmed under his gaze as he scrutinised her.

"Your body – its more toned. Yoga. That hair style actually suits you and complements your face shape, meaning you went to an effort to seek beauty advice. You also take the effort to curl it everyday, but not to impress anyone. You do it for yourself, how curious. You have plans tonight, a date – but not a potential lover, a partner. Of, seven – no! Eight months already – things are serious…he has a ring – "

"Stop!" She shrieked. "For the love of god, please stop."

His eye shot to hers.

"You play dead for two bloody years and then think you can stroll back into my life and start analysing it like you do to strangers? Who do you think you are? I'd appreciate it if you kept your thoughts to yourself, thank you very much."

"I'm –"

"And you're right," she interrupted. "There is something different about me. I'm _happy,_ Sherlock. For the first time in a really, really long time I'm just _happy_. I'm completely content and confident in where my life is right now. I'm with a man who loves me and supports me and I'm not about to start pining after you like a schoolgirl. Those days are long over, so don't think you can start getting away with analysing and manipulating me like you used to. I wont take it anymore!"

He looked suitably surprised at her outburst: it was unlike the old Molly to yell at him so.

"Look," she said, this time more calmly. "Words cannot even begin to describe how I feel about you being alive…its too overwhelming, but in the best way possible. I think its best if I keep working and we… talk another time."

With a nod, she was left alone.

* * *

The passion in her voice. The intelligent, wise twinkle in her eyes. The curve of her neck, now so much more visible than before. The shapeliness of her hips.

Yes, Molly Hooper was different.

And Sherlock had taken notice.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Molly nursed her glass of wine between both hands as she observed the room from the corner she was nestled in. Greg and John were talking animatedly about something or other, both a little tipsy. Mary was humouring Mrs. Hudson on the sofa, listening politely as the elder lady prattled on about a recipe, clearly looking for a way to escape the conversation. Molly supposed she ought to help her friend, but couldn't find the strength to make such an effort at the moment.

Her eyes swung to Sherlock who was sitting in his chair with his hands steeped under his chin, deep in thought, ignoring everyone in the room. But Molly supposed she was, too.

She watched with interest as Sherlocks eyes moved to John, just for a moment. Their friendship was strained; anyone with eyes could see that. Mary had told her about the fight at the restaurant, how John had been so angry and he'd gone back to Mary's that night and cried. Cried for the friend he'd thought he'd lost and the hopelessness he felt at having to handle having him back. She'd cried the night he'd come back, too.

Things slowly went back to normal as the world recovered from the shock of the consulting detective coming back from the dead. Sherlock had jumped straight back into helping clients and it wasn't long before John was joining him. There were moments when they'd share a laugh or reminisce for old times sake, and their eyes would meet and it would be like nothing ever happened. But John would get a guarded look in his eyes; a look intense enough to match the dejection in Sherlocks own. For the most part, things were back to how they were before... well, everything.

Sherlock approved of Johns engagement to Mary. Molly knew he could see the intelligence and fierce loyalty in Mary that she herself saw in the blonde woman. If John had to marry any woman, Sherlock was happy that woman was Mary.

 _Speaking of marriage_ , she thought to herself. It seemed like Sherlock had been right, those two months ago. Tom had breached the topic of marriage with Molly, telling her that more than anything he hoped to settle down with her and start a family. She had been full of, "Yes, of course, Tom" and "There's nothing I want more, Tom", but the conversation had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She didn't know if it was because she wasn't ready for marriage with Tom _yet,_ or because she wouldn't be able to handle the humiliation from Sherlock. For eight bloody months she had introduced Tom to everyone: Meena, John, Mrs Hudson. But _no one,_ not _one_ of them mentioned his resemblance to Sherlock. Molly was so blind that she had started dating a man who could practically be related to her first love. When she'd introduced him to Sherlock, at least the detective had the foresight to wait until Tom had excused himself to use the loo to bombard Molly with the similarities. Of course she had to deny it and say she didn't know what he was talking about and that he was insane. But now it was all she could see.

 _God, I need another wine,_ she thought, looking down into her empty glass. She pushed herself from her wall and excused her way into the kitchen. She tried to ignore the feel of _his_ eyes on her the whole time.

The amount of times she had felt him just _looking_ at her since his return. Nearly every time he had made his way into the lab or they'd had a gathering with their friends such as tonight. It was a strange feeling to have his gaze on her after years of feeling like he didn't even realise she was in the room.

More importantly to Molly, was _why_ he was staring at her in the first place. It was unnerving; it put her on edge, made her body tingle and her heart race. He must be analysing her, deducing her, trying to figure out how to use her. There was no other explanation as to why she was on the receiving end of his attentions.

The wine fell liberally from the bottle and she paused, adding just a splash more before putting it back away. She turned, fully intending to enter the living room and actually begin socialising for the night. The glass of alcohol had made her a little looser, a little calmer, a little more relaxed in his presence.

Her heart still, however, skipped a little when she turned and found herself face to face with the man she had just been thinking about.

"You really know how to sneak up on people, don't you," she gasped out a little laugh.

"It comes with the job," he murmured.

Uncomfortable silence. Averted eyes.

"Would you like a drink?" she asked, holding up her glass, desperate to just break the quiet.

She was surprised to say the least when he replied in the affirmative.

Both with drinks in hand now, the silence returned.

"You don't appear to be the social type tonight," he said suddenly.

"Oh," she replied. He _had_ noticed. "Just tired, I suppose. Work and all that. I was about to head back out and be a bit more of a human being."

"Where's Tom tonight? He asked, just before he shut his eyes and took quite a long sip of wine.

"Unfortunately he had other plans," she said. Lie. She had told him that she was having a girls night with Meena and her girlfriends. Ever since he and Sherlock had met, she couldn't bare being in the same room with them both of them.

"That's a shame," he exclaimed, although Molly got the feeling he meant the complete opposite. "Ring finger still bare, I see. Taking his time?"

"Sherlock," she warned.

"What? Just a simple question."

"Well no more questions. I am in no rush to get married. To _anyone._ "

Silence. More sips of wine.

"When he does ask, Molly, which he will, just know… you deserve more."

That took Molly completely off guard, so much so that she nearly dropped her glass. She _deserved_ _more_? Since when the bloody hell did he think that? And why the bloody hell did he think that?

His eyes held hers over the rim of his own glass, dark and heavy with something she couldn't understand. Her breath left her in a shaky swoop.

 _Shit shit shit shit shit._ That one word kept repeating over and over in her mind. Who was she trying to kid? Certainly not herself anymore. Her feelings for Sherlock had been buried deep within her, that was for sure, but buried deep didn't mean that they'd disappeared completely. Not even a little bit at all.

It was unfair. Completely and utterly unfair. He was an arse to her the whole time they'd known each other, and then he'd gone and faked his death leaving her to think she had lost the love of her life. She'd picked herself back up, moved on with a man who she knew she could care deeply for, and then Sherlock just came up out of nowhere with renewed interest in her, saying strange thoughtful things and nearly constantly staring at her. It would be easier if Sherlock had returned and treated her the way he always had.

Her body swayed closer to him, drawn in by his intense gaze. He took an almost imperceptible step closer to her, as well, and Molly thought, _Sherlock Holmes is going to kiss me. Finally._

And he would have, if it weren't for John barging into the kitchen at that exact moment.

"Am I…interrupting something?" His gaze shifted between both of them, their closeness and no doubt feeling the unfinished tension in the atmosphere.

"Not at all, John." Sherlock replied easily, eyes breaking from Molly's. Her eyes shifted to look anywhere else than the two men, finally settling on the floor.

"Okayyyyyy," the doctor said. "This isn't awkward _at all_."

"Did you have something you needed?" Sherlock snapped.

"Mrs Hudson wants everyone in the living room. So when you two are done…doing whatever it is you were doing, we would be honoured by your presence."

"We'll head back now, John. We're done talking," Molly said finally finding her voice, before sweeping past the two men and out the door.

"Talking," John scoffed. "Yeah, right."

Sherlock glared at him for the rest of the night.

The following Saturday night, Tom proposed to Molly in a low-key affair at the Italian restaurant where they had gone on their first date. Needless to say, Molly arrived home later that night not only with a ring-less finger, but also with the slight sense of sweet relief that Tom had gone and saved her the trouble of breaking up with him.


End file.
